The Drought. J. G. Ballard

      He waited as Ransom filled a two-gallon can from the sink tap. There was no pressure and the water dribbled in. When Ransom handed him the can he seemed to switch himself on, as if he had suspended judgment on the possibility of receiving the water until it made physical contact with his hands.

      ‘It's good of you, doctor. Grady's the name, Matthew Grady. This'll keep the kids going to the coast.’

      ‘Drink some yourself. You look as if you need it. It's only a hundred miles.’

      Grady nodded sceptically. ‘Maybe. But I figure the last couple of miles will be really hard going. Could take us a whole two days, maybe three. You can't drink sea-water. Getting down on to the beach is only the start.’ At the door he added, as if the water in his hand compelled him to reciprocate at least a modicum of good advice: ‘Doctor, things are going to be rough soon. You pull out now while you can.’

      Ransom smiled at this. ‘I already have pulled out. Anyway, keep a place for me on the sand.’ He watched Grady wrap the can in his coat and bob off down the drive, eyes moving from left to right as he slipped away between the cars.

      Unable to relax in the empty house, Ransom decided to wait for Judith in the drive. The fine ash settled through the air from the unattended fires, and he climbed into the car, dusting the seats and controls. He switched on the radio and listened to the intermittent news reports broadcast from the few radio stations still operating.

      The world-wide drought now in its fifth month was the culmination of a series of extended droughts that had taken place with increasing frequency all over the globe during the previous decade. Ten years earlier a critical shortage of world food-stuffs had occurred when the seasonal rainfall expected in a number of important agricultural areas had failed to materialize. One by one, areas as far apart as Saskatchewan and the Loire valley, Kazakhstan and the Madras tea country were turned into arid dust-basins. The following months brought little more than a few inches of rain, and after two years these farmlands were totally devastated. Once their populations had resettled themselves elsewhere, these new deserts were abandoned for good.

      The continued appearance of more and more such areas on the map, and the added difficulties of making good the world's food supplies, led to the first attempts at some form of global weather control. A survey by the UN Food and Agriculture Organization showed that everywhere river levels and water tables were falling. The two-and-a-half million square miles drained by the Amazon had shrunk to less than half this area. Scores of its tributaries had dried up completely, and aerial surveys discovered that much of the former rainforest was already dry and petrified. At Khartoum, in lower Egypt, the White Nile was twenty feet below its mean level ten years earlier, and lower outlets were bored in the concrete barrage of the dam at Aswan.

      Despite world-wide attempts at cloud-seeding, the amounts of rainfall continued to diminish. The seeding operations finally ended when it was obvious that not only was there no rain, but there were no clouds. At this point attention switched to the ultimate source of rainfall – the ocean surface. It needed only the briefest scientific examination to show that here were the origins of the drought.

      Covering the off-shore waters of the world's oceans, to a distance of about a thousand miles from the coast, was a thin but resilient mono-molecular film formed from a complex of saturated long-chain polymers, generated within the sea from the vast quantities of industrial wastes discharged into the ocean basins during the previous fifty years. This tough, oxygen-permeable membrane lay on the air-water interface and prevented almost all evaporation of surface water into the air space above. Although the structure of these polymers was quickly identified, no means was found of removing them. The saturated linkages produced in the perfect organic bath of the sea were completely non-reactive, and formed an intact seal broken only when the water was violently disturbed. Fleets of trawlers and naval craft equipped with rotating flails began to ply up and down the Atlantic and Pacific coasts of North America, and along the sea-boards of Western Europe, but without any long-term effects. Likewise, the removal of the entire surface water provided only a temporary respite – the film quickly replaced itself by lateral extension from the surrounding surface, recharged by precipitation from the reservoir below.

      The mechanism of formation of these polymers remained obscure, but millions of tons of highly reactive industrial wastes – unwanted petroleum fractions, contaminated catalysts and solvents – were still being vented into the sea, where they mingled with the wastes of atomic power stations and sewage schemes. Out of this brew the sea had constructed a skin no thicker than a few atoms, but sufficiently strong to devastate the lands it once irrigated.

      This act of retribution by the sea had always impressed Ransom by its simple justice. Cetyl alcohol films had long been used as a means of preventing evaporation from water reservoirs, and nature had merely extended the principle, applying a fractional tilt, at first imperceptible, to the balance of the elements. As if further to tantalize mankind, the billowing cumulus clouds, burdened like madonnas with cool rain, which still formed over the central ocean surfaces, would sail steadily towards the shorelines but always deposit their cargo into the dry unsaturated air above the sealed offshore waters, never on to the crying land

       7 The Face

      A police car approached along the avenue and stopped fifty yards away. After a discreet interval, stemming more from custom than any sense of propriety, Judith Ransom stepped out. She leaned through the window, talking to Captain Hendry. After checking her watch against his, she hurried up the drive. She failed to notice Ransom sitting in the dust-covered car, and went on into the house.

      Ransom waited until she had gone upstairs. He stepped from the car and strolled down towards Hendry. Ransom had always liked the police captain, and during the past two years their relationship had become the most stable side of the triangle – indeed, Ransom sometimes guessed, its main bond. How long Judith and Hendry would survive the rigours of the beach alone remained to be seen.

      As Ransom reached the car Hendry put down the map he was studying.

      ‘Still here, Charles? Don't you feel like a few days at the beach?’

      ‘I can't swim.’ Ransom pointed to the camping equipment in the back seat. ‘All that looks impressive. A side of Judith's character I never managed to explore.’

      ‘I haven't either – yet. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking. Do I have your blessing?’

      ‘Of course. And Judith too, you know that.’

      Hendry gazed up at Ransom. ‘You sound completely detached, Charles. What are you planning to do – wait here until the place turns into a desert?’

      Ransom drew his initials in the dust behind the windscreen wiper. ‘It seems to be a desert already. Perhaps I'm more at home here. I want to stay on a few days and find out.’

      ‘Rather you than me. Do you think you really will leave?’

      ‘Certainly. It's just a whim of mine, you know.’

      But something about Hendry's changed tone, the note of condescension, reminded Ransom that Hendry might resent his sense of detachment more than he imagined. He talked to the captain for a few minutes, then said goodbye and went indoors.

      He found Judith in the kitchen, rooting in the refrigerator. A small stack of cans stood in a carton on the table.

      ‘Charles—’ She straightened up, brushing her blonde hair off her angular face. ‘That beard – I thought you were down at the river.’

      ‘I was,’ Ransom said. ‘I came back to see if I could do anything for us. It's rather late in the day.’

      Judith watched him with a neutral expression. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said matter-of-factly. She bent down to the refrigerator again, flicking at the greasy cans with her well-tended nails.

      ‘I've been dividing things up,’ she explained. ‘I've left you most of the stuff. And you can have all the water.’